Hold me tight
by My-Falling-Angel
Summary: 'He had killed Him. It was his fault. They were right; he still had the power to kill after all these years.' He had killed his best friend. AU - Scarred from what he's witnessed in war John Watson struggles to cope with civilian life. Experiencing flashbacks it seems the only man who can save him has dark raven curls and pale porcelain skin. Or can he? Trigger warnings for suicide


So let darkness come, 'cause that will be fine;  
for I'll have a soul entangled in mine.  
We'll do as we please, and please hold me tight,  
For I will be loved, I will be loved,  
Yes, I will be loved tonight.  
\- Jennifer Simard

* * *

He had killed Him. It was his fault. They were right; he still had the power to kill after all these years. He had killed his best friend.

* * *

The world was a blur of blues, greens and browns interrupted by white hot flashes overhead. Men ran around him shouting orders. Lie low men, lie low. Above the cloudless sky was still in contrast with the busy ground below. The men in tanned camouflaged uniformed swarmed in a structured mass across the dusted grass. So many were already dead or dying. War raged around them but Captain John Watson froze as he spied a small silver object racing towards him.  
A bullet.  
A bullet that screamed his name. As he tried desperately to move, it felt as if his body had been suspended in thick sticky syrup. Silence is all he knew, all he'd even known. The bullet was moving faster and faster towards him as he moved slower and slower. I can make it, he told himself; I am going to be okay. He dived to the side and crashed to the hard ground; he heard a harsh cry of pain. He looked around for the fallen comrade whose scream had ripped through the air when he realised. It was him. He looked down to find a small hole through the cloth of his sandy uniform, crimson liquid seeping from it. The bullet had hit him square in the shoulder. Then the pain started, ricocheting through his body and it took his breath away. He started to scream again. Don't let the darkness come, he prayed, before the comforting darkness took him.

* * *

He jolted upwards and opened his eyes, throat sore from screaming. With ragged breath he looked around him. Pale white walls closed in around him, the walls of a hospital. A hospital for the clinically insane and the pain flooded back to him. They said He never existed, that He was just a coping mechanism after Afghanistan. But they were wrong. He was real, now He was dead. And it was his fault.

* * *

"Please, just tell me what you are!"  
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Flashbacks are more painful than dreams of war. They weren't nightmares, for he wasn't scared by them. He didn't regret the career path he had chosen. He had saved many young men and women's lives. But he couldn't save the most important. John with the shoulder wound, P.T.S.D, a limp that was defiantly not psychosomatic and intermittent tremors in his left hand. He was broken, he couldn't save Him. Dark raven curls. Pale porcelain skin. Kaleidoscope eyes.

* * *

"Its okay, John. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick. I'm a fake," Ice cold metal touched his hand. The shape was so familiar; it felt right.  
"You can do it John," his therapist's voice was soft, her eyes filled with concern. He came over and helped him load it; both pairs of hands were calm even though one was about to die.  
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

* * *

He knew He was never coming back. It was like a part of him had been ripped from his body, his mind. Once a solider has his mission, there was no stopping him. Addressing the empty room, his broken voice was full of pain echoed off the walls,  
"You were the best man, the most human being that I've ever known. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it."

* * *

The sound ricocheted off the previously white walls, followed by the near inaudible thump of his body hitting the floor. Shot at point blank range. Warm hands picked him up slowly. They were shaking, crimson droplets flew off them. A deep red swirled on the white tiled floor. John opened his eyes and He was there. The tall figure took him in his arms, taking in his blood. He let the darkness come, nothing mattered anymore as long as he was held tight in His arms. Their souls were entangled again and John would never let Him leave again. For the first and last time in his brief life, he knew he would be loved tonight.  
"I knew you were real, Sherlock," The whisper of a dying breath.

* * *

Authors note: Hi again, just a short one I wrote for my English exam (hating the word limit). Once again, I own nothing. I may fully complete this at a later date but who knows? Thanks for reading :)


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